Page 21 of Juniper Unraveling

Ladling the soup into the bowls I’ve set out on the counter, I pause at a flash of memory that strikes me. Soup ladled into a bowl. Hunger gnawing at my stomach. A scalding sting hits my leg, so hot it almost feels cold, and I jump back as the ladle falls to the floor.

“You’ve made a mess, Wren. Be sure to clean it.”

I gasp at the voice, and spin around to find Papa standing in the doorway. His graying hair and stern face, cast in shadows from the dying light, make him look angry, even if he isn’t. His voice is calm and level, much like his personality.

“Sit. Let me look at the burn on your leg.”

After setting the ladle in the sink for rinsing, I pull a chair from the table and fall into it, eyeing the puffy red above my knee, where the burn has already settled below my skin.

Crouching down in front of me, he runs his fingers gently over the markings. “I’ll put some aloe on it.”

“I’ve got some.” From my pocket, I pull the tip of the plant I broke off and hand it to him.

He grips my wrist and turns it over, to the gouges in my forearm, and those stern brown eyes lift to mine. “Bugs again?”

I don’t tell him it was brought on by a boy who failed to show up for our unscheduled meetings in the woods. Instead, I nod.

“And the hallucinations?”

“Not as bad as before,” I assure him. “They’re going away again. Anything new on the other side?” I hate talking about what’s wrong with me, so I shift the conversation to something far more appetizing.

Releasing my arm, he sets his hands on his thighs and pushes to straighten himself. “Nothing that would interest you.”

“It would. Tell me.” I slide off the chair, nabbing rags from the adjacent drawer, which I throw onto the spilled soup.

His insistence that I never go beyond the wall is a frustration with no resolution. Certainly not worth the effort of asking again, but I enjoy his stories, no matter how mundane he thinks they are. Once I’ve mopped the broth, I rinse the ladle and finish filling the bowls with the soup.

The chasing silence makes it clear he has no intentions of telling me about his day, so I set the bowls on the table and slice two pieces of bread that I set beside them. Taking my seat, I bow my head, silently giving thanks for the meal, and lift the spoon for a taste.

The meat, potatoes and warm broth fills my stomach, and I dip my spoon for another. We’re only allowed two meat-containing meals a week, to conserve what’s stored away. Tonight’s happens to be squirrel.

“I brought you something.” From his pocket, Papa pulls a string of multicolored beads, with four white in the center that spell ‘love.’ Slipping it over my wrist, he tugs his mouth into the slightest smile. “Found it in some rubble. Thought you might like it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, twisting it until love sits atop my wrist. “I love it.” I chuckle, and a quick upward glance shows him staring at me, serious as always.

I’ve never heard him laugh, his smile never reaches his eyes, and I suppose that’s okay. It’s gestures like these—the gifts, the gentle care of my wounds, the inquiries of my day—that I’ve come to learn are his ways of showing his care. I’m glad he’s not overly affectionate toward me, anyway—that would feel more awkward than his lack of hugs.

“Something else,” he says, slipping his hand into his other pocket. His closed fist opens, revealing a silver key in his palm, and I quickly snatch it up, twisting it in front of me.

I collect keys. House keys. Car keys. Doesn’t matter what kind. I like knowing they unlock something, somewhere in the world. I pretend they’re the keys to someone’s story—their hopes and dreams—and I’m now the keeper of it.

I examine the ridges along the edge, and run my thumb over its teeth. “This one … it belongs to a castle. With a moat around the perimeter and lush green grass. And flowers. So many colorful flowers, you’d think a rainbow touched the ground.”

“You’ve got quite an imagination, Wren.” Setting his elbows at either side of his bowl, he lifts his spoon. “I’ve gathered some Mormon Tea to begin stocking for winter.”

“I’ll make sure it’s ground tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve noticed your chores have been completed each day.” He tears off pieces of the bread, setting the small chunks on a napkin beside the bowl. “What’s the occasion?”

Humor, though, coming from him is as dry as bone.

“Boredom.” Dipping the bread into my soup, I keep my gaze focused on the steam rising up from the bowl. “I saw smoke today. North side. Looked like it was coming from the other side of the wall.”

“What were you doing on the North side?” He’s a much more refined eater than I am, spooning the soup into his mouth without a single sound.

“Exploring.”

“Not in the woods, I hope.”